


One Night

by ShinigamiAnateria (ShinigamiKnox)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hair Pulling Kink, John caring for Sherlock, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock likes attention, Sherlock may be touch-starved, alcohol consumption, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiKnox/pseuds/ShinigamiAnateria
Summary: Sherlock can be manipulated by merely touching his rather sensitive scalp, a discovery I made after a night of drinking and Sherlock's stubbornness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at writing first person POV from John's perspective. Let me know if you spot any mistakes. Unbeta'd and not brit-picked, as per usual.

It wasn’t often Sherlock and I went out drinking. In fact, it was a rarity. Between Sherlock’s antisocial tendencies and my own reluctance to have my friends and enigmatic roommate mingle over drinks, it just didn’t happen. However, that night, Sherlock was abuzz with energy resulting from his usual post-case high and was feeling claustrophobic in the flat. So, we went out.

Lestrade joined us about half an hour after our first drink, having finished the resultant paperwork. Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod then returned to observing those around us. I was connecting the trail Sherlock had left Greg figure out on his own.

“So, basically, she was a jealous ex-lover,” Lestrade summarized.

“Basically, yeah,” I agreed. Sherlock snorted from beside him, earning him a look from both Lestrade and myself.

“Much more went into it than just _jealousy_ ,” Sherlock argued.

“You’ve never been jealous before. You’ve no idea how such strong emotions can make a person act,” Greg responded.

“I understand how emotions work, Lestrade. If I did not, I would find myself at a disadvantage in this field, as I’m sure you’re quite aware.”

Taking a deep breath, Greg let the topic drop and took a sip of his beer. I wasn’t sure which was preferable, their bickering or the tense silence that followed.

It wasn’t our intention to go out to get sloshed, but when Greg proffered a drinking game, my competitive nature decided it was a good idea. Sherlock had originally scoffed at the idea, but I _observed_ him taking delicate sips right along with us. The night kind of blurred after the next hour of small talk, of which Sherlock refused to take part in.

I was feeling pleasantly warm and intoxicated when Lestrade made his exit, claiming he had a somewhat early morning. Sherlock had given up keeping up with us in the drinking competition. His tolerance for alcohol consumption was nowhere near mine nor Greg’s and, of course, he was aware of that. His face was somewhat flushed and his eyes unfocused. He kept looking my way until I suggested we head back to the flat.

“Can we get takeaway on the way back? There’s this place that’s open late...” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and slurred.

“Yeah, sure.” I was quick to agree. He hadn’t removed his coat, but waited for me to fumble my way into my own jacket before leading us out. I do remember quite clearly Sherlock’s warm arm resting between my arm and side, perhaps holding on to keep from tripping over the pavement. Even after we had gotten the food, I held the bag in my left hand while he held onto my right arm, both gloved hands around my bicep. It was odd of him to be so affectionate. He had been smiling quite a lot since leaving the pub, between the looks of concentration over uneven pavement. I kind of remember him humming a tune of sorts as we approached our flat.

The stairs seemed to give the consulting detective some trouble. I had to grab the collar of his coat with my free hand to pull him up the last few steps before he fell backward, causing a fit of giggles on both our parts. With some difficulty, he pulled his scarf off without strangling himself and hung his coat up by the door. By the time he’d managed that, I had our containers set out with cutlery.

“Alright?” I asked as I fell into one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock struggled with the buttons on his suit jacket for a few moments before looking up and nodding. He finally got the jacket open and off then sat to work on rolling his sleeves up.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice had a slight whine to it, sounding strange in the naturally deep timbre of his voice. He held out both of his arms. With a sigh, I pulled both buttons on his first sleeve open and rolled the fabric a few times then repeated on the other sleeve. “It seems as though buttons aren’t agreeing with me this evening.” He took his hands back and attacked the food in front of him as though it was his first meal in days. It probably _was_ his first decent meal that week.

“Have you eaten at all today?”

“No time,” Sherlock said between bites.

“Right.” I retrieved a glass from the top cabinet, filled it with water, then slid it over to him. “Drink up.”

I’d like to think the look I got was one of gratitude but that’s unlikely. He downed half of the glass down almost immediately.

“I seem to have misjudged the amount of alcohol,” he paused for another quick bite, “I drank.”

“You’ll be fine. Just keep drinking water.”

“Everything’s fuzzy and indistinguishable. Like that spot on your cuff. I can’t tell if that’s from this morning or something you’ve just done.” He sounded slightly frustrated by this revelation but lost interest in favor of his food. I refilled the glass for him.

“It’s not surprising. You trying to keep up with a drinking competition on an empty stomach? Not your brightest move.”

“I wasn’t—“ Sherlock sounded indignant. His flushed cheeks grew darker. “You lost anyways,” he grumbled.

“I usually do.”

He gave me a confused look before returning his full attention to the food. It only took him another five minutes before he was pushing the container away with a quiet groan.

“Stomach hurting?” I asked, slightly amused. He nodded with a troubled look. “Drink up.” While he did so, I retrieved a tablet of the antiemetic we had in the cabinet. Before I could refill his glass a third time, he had swallowed the tablet without any difficulty.

“Come on. Up you get.” I offered to help him out of the chair, but he insisted on doing it himself. Once in his room, he began pulling at the buttons on his shirt in such an uncoordinated way, I took pity on him and helped him. By this time, I was already feeling the pleasant warmth of intoxication beginning to ebb away. He fell ungracefully onto his bed. I had to pull him up by the front of his shirt then smack his hands away to finish untucking and unbuttoning it.

“Second...yeah, second drawer,” Sherlock mumbled before I had to ask. Leaving him to lie back, I retrieved a clean pair of pyjamas to set beside him. With a sigh, I pushed his hands away from his trousers. It was much easier to remove his shoes and trousers while he laid mostly still on his bed. I was briefly thankful he’d decided _not_ to go pant-less that day. He was at least able to pull his own pyjama bottoms up, though I had to help him with the top.

“I know you probably don’t spend much time in bed, but it’s usually more comfortable if you lie the other way.” I sat down next to him to catch my breath for a moment. Undressing and dressing the lanky man had certainly took more energy than I thought it would.

“Mm.”

“How’s your stomach?”

“Mm.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled and turned onto his side, away from me, and pulled his feet up towards his body. “Headache, too.”

“Keep drinking.”

“Too nauseous to move.”

I most certainly did _not_ roll my eyes. “Turn over.” I grabbed a pillow from behind me and set it over my lap. “Come on.” I patted the pillow. He looked over his shoulder at me sceptically. “C’mon.”

He slowly turned over and plopped his head down on the pillow on my lap. The rest of his body stretched languidly along the rest of the length of his bed.

“You’re being nice,” Sherlock murmured, sounding confused.

“Making sure you don’t asphyxiate in your own vomit.”

“Not that drunk,” he said with a quiet sigh. I rested my right hand on his shoulder while my left touched his head gently. The ends of his soft curls wrapped around my fingers. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Mum used to…” he said quietly. I didn’t hear the rest of his mumbling but got the idea and ran my fingertips over his scalp, massaging gently. The curls didn’t tangle, rather my fingers ran through his silky hair quite easily. “ ‘s good,” he all but moaned.

“Don’t get too comfortable. Sit up a bit.” I pushed his dead weight up enough to bring the glass to his lips. “Drink.” I didn’t really give him much of an option, but he took quite a few sips. He lowered his head back onto the pillow and pulled my left hand back to his head. After setting the glass back down, I ran my fingers from his fringe to the back of his head. When I pushed the hair against the grain, he shivered slightly and I heard him inhale sharply. He shifted to lay mostly on his front while he sprawled his arms over me, one around my backside and the other over top of my lap.

It didn’t take much time at all before his breathing evened out and his entire body relaxed. I watched his sleeping form for quite some time before I even attempted to shift him over. I don’t believe he’s a heavy sleeper, however, he was rather reluctant to let go of me or to move over. It took some time and inventive manoeuvring to untangle myself from his grasp but eventually I was successful.

I remember it being quite late by the time I got up to my room, into pyjamas myself, and practically collapsed into my own bed.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up to a _fantastic_ hangover. Sherlock, for having such a rough night, seemed to appear in the morning no worse for wear. Ah, to be that resilient again.

We had a quiet, late morning with tea and more water for both of us. He didn’t mention anything about last night and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up if he didn’t remember. Even if I’d hoped to be put in that sort of situation again. Petting his head seemed to have the same comforting response that resulted from petting a cat or dog, oddly enough. He had a similar response, as well, to a family cat we had when I was young. She, too, sprawled over my lap and fell asleep if I pet her head long enough.

“How’s your nausea?” I managed to ask. Even the sound of my own voice was too loud.

“Gone,” Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. “I see your hangover is in full effect.”

“Inside voice, Sherlock.” I tried to keep myself from whispering, but between my dry mouth and pounding headache, it wasn’t much louder than a whisper.

He set his phone aside. “I’m speaking no louder than normal,” he said, looking slightly annoyed.

“Tetchy, too.”

“Paracetamol is in the same place it’s always been.”

“I’m sorry, but who made sure you got enough water down to keep from the same fate?”

“Who asked you to?”

“You certainly weren’t complaining.” I downed the rest of the tea in my cup, filled a glass with water, and headed for the stairs. “Heading back to bed,” I whispered over my shoulder. Sherlock had turned his attention back to his phone.

“Lestrade texted with a case. That is, if your hangover isn’t too much of an impediment.”

I’d been about three steps up and paused. Thinking it over quickly, I nodded and continued up to my bedroom to dress for the day. It was quite unusual to get a case so quickly after the last, especially with Sherlock’s fussy attitude at times. But I was grateful to be out of the flat and the running around seemed to at least distract me from my hangover symptoms. We hadn’t made it back to the flat until late. I would have been content being able to go right to bed, but my unrelenting thoughts led me to spend some time winding down in my chair. Sherlock had taken up on the settee, staring up at the ceiling, lying completely still.

He popped up suddenly after only about ten minutes. He must have decided plucking away at his violin was a better use of his hands than lying still, or perhaps he had too much energy to sit still. He began pacing from the fireplace to the window playing various short, aborted tunes. Eventually, he fell into a longer melody that was smooth, long notes that had me drifting off to sleep in my chair.

I woke up to silence and disorientation. Blinking my eyes into focus, I realized Sherlock had pulled his chair closer to mine and was staring unblinkingly at me with his violin over his lap. His hands held the usual steepled position beneath his chin.

“Yes?” I grunted out, the dryness in my mouth making it somewhat difficult to speak.

“While I have no qualms against sleeping here, most people sleep in the comfort of their own room.” His curls shifted slightly as his head cocked to the side curiously.

“Wasn’t intentional. What time is it?”

“Eleven.” His eyes narrowed. “You talk in your sleep.”

I didn’t recall dreaming about anything in particular. “About what?”

“I managed to decipher ‘utter arsehole.’ I find it flattering you dream about me.”

“I know plenty of people I’d describe that way. You’re not the only one.”

“No, I suppose not. But I am the only one you’d describe as such with a smile on your face.” The corners of Sherlock’s mouth lifted in a small smile.

“Sometimes,” I grumbled in defeat. “Was there anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head without another word. He kept looking at me.

“Nothing else?” I repeated after some time.

“I don’t take kindly to distractions,” Sherlock said after another silent minute.

I blinked a few times before responding with a confused “What?”

“You. You and your hands.”

“My…hands?”

“Your fingers, specifically.”

I looked at him blankly. “Yeah, sorry. You’ve lost me.”

Sherlock gave me that usual annoyed look, as if it were my fault I couldn’t see the connections he could. Usually it was case related, not…whatever this had been.

“Your hands.” He slid his own hand through his dark curls quickly.

“What are you on about, Sherlock?”

“It doesn’t have the same effect when I do it,” he muttered more to himself than to me while he tugged a bit on his hair on the back of his head.

“You… Oh, for fuck’s sake, you just want to be pet?”

Sherlock dropped his hand onto the arm rest, his fingers drumming against the fabric. He fidgeted in his seat.

“Is that it?” I asked when he didn’t respond.

“It’s relaxing,” his low voice rumbled quietly.

“All right.”

“All right?”

I sat up straight in my chair and stretched my stiff muscles. “Well?” I flicked my gaze down to the patch of floor in front of me. He didn’t hesitate to set his violin down on the floor next to his chair then sank to the floor. I opened my knees enough for him to fit his body between my legs while he sat with his back against my chair. I carded my fingers through the curls slowly, teasing the strands out of their usual placement.

“You’re even worse than the cat I had as a child.”

“Mm,” he sighed, quiet and content.

I pulled gently on the hair at the top of his head. He let me tip his head back until he was looking at me upside down. “She sulked, too, when she didn’t get the attention she wanted.”

Had it not been for the slight smile, I’d doubt whether he heard me at all. When I resumed stroking him, his eyes fluttered shut and his breathing slowed.

“Ridiculous,” I muttered.

“Shh!”

I rolled my eyes but indulged him. He kept his head tilted back but shifted his body so he could rest his head against my thighs.

He was the first to break the silence with his quiet, low voice. “How’s your, ah, hangover?”

“Better,” I answered simply as I ran my fingertips in a circular pattern on either side of his head.

He nodded slightly then tipped his head to the right, putting his cheek against my leg. With another quiet sigh, he rubbed his cheek against me a few times, slowly.

“Didn’t think you’d remember anything from last night.”

“I do. Sort of. It’s fuzzy but—Oh, just as pleasant as I remember though.” He turned his body more to the right, seeming to cuddle right up to my right leg. He yawned then nestled back against me and the chair.

“You’re going to fall asleep on the floor.”

“Mm,” he hummed in acknowledgement or agreement. “Doesn’t matter. Slept in worse places.”

“Oh, yeah? Like where?”

“Pavement,” he said, as if that provided the entire story. “Stone floor in winter,” he continued to list off, “dirt, and in a tree.”

“I don’t know which to ask about first.”

“The tree seemed like a great idea at the time.”

“Yeah? How’d you manage not to fall out?”

“ ‘m a light sleeper.”

I snorted out a laugh. “No, you’re not.”

He snaked an arm around my calf and rubbed his cheek against my leg again. I slid my fingers from the top of his head to the base of his neck. My fingertips slid below the collar of his shirt. He shivered as I just barely touched the skin on the back of his neck.

“Good?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he moaned in contentment. “Perfect.”

“What about the pavement?”

I could feel his entire body tense at that question. His hand dropped from around my calf and he fidgeted again. I already knew I wouldn’t get an answer so I worked to soothe him back into a calm state by massaging his scalp gently. It took a few minutes, but he eventually melted back against me. His arm returned to my calf, this time winding around my leg to allow him to grasp onto my patella.

After some time without movement on his part, I thought he’d gone and fallen asleep on me. Content for the moment, I let him. When I dropped my left hand from his curls to his shoulder, he startled me by grasping onto my wrist. I thought I’d done something wrong and had begun to apologize. He pulled my hand forward slowly and lifted his head to press a kiss to the middle of my palm. After a moment, he chuckled softly as he…nuzzled up to my hand with his warm cheek that had been pressed to my leg. His other hand came up to encompass my hand, holding it in place against his face. The fingers on the hand that originally grabbed my wrist slid around the circumference in a gentle hold. I had to wonder if he was aware of how quickly my heart was beating by that contact on my wrist.

“You’re in an affectionate mood,” I choked out.

He hummed softly in agreement. “You haven’t had a girlfriend in a while.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“We crave physical contact, the neurotransmitter high we get from such contact. You’ve not had it for a while.”

“And?”

“So, this is mutually beneficial,” he said in that arrogant, superior tone of his. I tightened my fingers in his hair and tugged sharply. The action tore his face away from my other hand and caused an odd vocalisation from the man before me. It sounded like a gasp and a whimper. His head was just above my lap and his blue-green eyes stared up at me. His parted lips were pulled closed and his expression varied from confusion to wonder and fascination.

“Not good?” I asked, unsure of what to make of his response. He continued to stare up at me wordlessly. “Sherlock?”

It took a few more moments, as if he were processing something. “I…” he swallowed visibly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Need more data,” he said, as if that explained it well enough. “Bed.”

I looked at him in confusion.

“I’m going to bed,” he clarified. He tore his gaze away from me and dropped my hand. I let go of the soft strands of his hair to allow him to push himself up. He was already in the hallway to his room when I decided to apologize for anything I might have done to upset him. He came back to the kitchen area a moment later. I glanced over at him, waiting for him to speak. Instead, he turned back and headed into his room without a word.

“And he calls me the idiot,” I muttered to myself before making my way upstairs to bed as well.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning I didn’t see him before I left for work. By the time I returned home, he’d gone out. His bedroom door was left open and he was nowhere to be found in the flat so I assumed he’d be out for a while, if not the entire night.

The following week was quiet. He would barely say a word but I could _feel_ him watching me with his intense gaze. I figured he was just looking for an excuse to sit by me again and have me pet his head, but the refusal to ask left us at a stalemate. I wasn’t going to indulge his moody behaviour by giving him what he wanted.

That’s not to say I didn’t personally crave the feel of his soft head under my fingertips or the relaxed feeling it brought about. So, when he decided to stop sulking around and return his attention to his experiments or cases, I would ‘reward’ him by pushing his fringe away from his face and giving him a quick, gentle head scratch.

Perhaps it was the quick turn of his head I got in response, the hint of gratitude amongst the gratification that pushed me to keep teasing him. It was a more physical response than I got out of verbally complimenting his intelligence, although that was pleasing as well. Even after half a year of living together, of working together, I still voiced my astonishment to his feats and he still looked at me in surprise when I did.

It was after a particular long and tiring case that Sherlock had returned to the spot in front of my chair, months after the first time. He had dropped his head into my lap without so much as a warning, forcing me to move the hardcover book I had opened against my thighs. With a deep sigh, he pushed himself between my legs and nuzzled his cheek against my knee until I dropped a hand to his head.

Insistent on not losing my place in my book, I replaced it on one leg, propped up by the arm of the chair and my hand while my other hand carded through his hair absentmindedly. He sat still for a few minutes before leaning away to grab his laptop off the table. He sat back down beneath my hand and started tapping away at the keys.

We sat in silence for another twenty or thirty minutes, enough to let me finish the chapter I was on. He seemed to realize this before I set the book aside and practically pushed the book right off my lap with his head.

“Can I help you?” I asked incredulously, suppressing a smile. 

“Mm.”

“I thought you got bored of this.”

He shook his head, pulling his curls from my fingers. “I doubt this will ever get _boring_. Unless, of course, you start chatting.”

I pulled his hair back not too gently but not sharply. I was met with bright eyes and a knowing smile.

“You know, I don’t have to be here. I have better things I could be doing.”

“Like what? Typing up that last case? You won’t do that for another two weeks and five days. You still have the three others you’ve been meaning to chronicle. You probably won’t get to those for another three weeks, at least, not with your schedule. You could have used tonight to do so, however, you’ve elected to take up reading…” he picked up the book beside him on the floor. “Really?” he dropped his head back into my lap to look up at me in disappointment.

“It was on your bookshelf.”

“It was a gift. Lestrade thought I’d enjoy a dash of fiction, as if this book serves any purpose whatsoever.” He tossed it towards the table but it missed and slid halfway underneath it instead.

“It’s supposed to be recreational reading.”

“It would be, if it were in the slightest bit interesting. Read the first three pages, already knew the overemotional, adolescent-minded man would—“

I tugged more sharply on his hair to pull his head back again. “No. You’re not ruining the book for me.”

He went quiet the moment I pulled with a quick, choked gasp. I soothed the spot with a few slow strokes, a silent apology. A soft pink colour appeared in his cheeks and he sat up a little straighter. I expected him to get up and leave, like last time, but he stayed put, only setting aside his laptop.

“But—“

Another sharp tug. Another gasp. “No,” I repeated, making sure his unfocused eyes met mine. I couldn’t help but notice the way his hands had grasped uselessly at the rug and how his back bowed, curving up and away from my legs. It was oddly erotic, if I had to tell the truth.

I let go of my grasp on his curls after another moment. His body relaxed slowly, his hands unfurled then pulled his jacket closed.

“You like that.” I couldn’t tell if I was asking or telling him.

“It would appear so,” he admitted in a shaky voice. He ran his hands down his front, smoothing the fabric down while he brought his knees up. He rested his forearms against his knees while I went back to smoothing down his hair.

“You tried doing it yourself, after last time, didn’t you?” I didn’t get a response. “Realized,” I continued after a moment, “that, like last time, the effect wasn’t the same. Frustrating, no? That you can’t do everything yourself.” I slid my fingers down the back of his head then forward to run over each side of his neck. On the left side, I could feel his pulse, faster than it should be but not quite racing yet. I continued on to rest a hand on either shoulder. “To rely on someone else for your satisfaction.” His head tipped forward while I rubbed firm circles on either side of his cervical vertebrae with my thumbs.

“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” he mumbled.

“So are you, by looks of it.”

The colour in his face darkened and spread to the tips of his ears. It wasn’t often I saw Sherlock Holmes _blush_. I leaned forward and tugged his head back by his hair once more. He was forced to look up at me, but his eyes quickly fell back to stare at my lips instead. I kept my grip tight, the curls twisted around my fingers.

“This does it for you?” I murmured as I trailed my free hand down the front of his neck and didn’t try to disguise my fingers checking his pulse. He tried to nod.

“Oh, yes,” he groaned quietly.

“Yeah?” I pulled at the top couple of buttons of his shirt and slid my hand under the fabric. His body leaned into the touch, seeming to crave the skin-on-skin contact. Before that night, he hadn’t exactly shied away from contact, but he also wasn’t overly affectionate. Oh, but that night, he responded so nicely. I could feel every hitch of breath with my hand over his chest.

His jacket fell open and his hands, once again, grabbed for the rug, finding no purchase. I began undoing the rest of the buttons without loosening my grip on his hair. His eyes fluttered but didn’t shut for long as my fingers brushed against his stomach.

When I got to the last button, I reached further down for his belt. Before I could even touch the smooth leather, his hand clasped tightly around my wrist. His eyes were closed tightly and the pause allowed me to take in the erotic visual before me. His dress trousers left little to the imagination and the flush had spread to his chest, too.

“Are you..?” I couldn’t bring myself to say any of the words flying through my suddenly sex-addled brain.

“So close,” he moaned. He arched his back, pressed his legs together, and took a deep, unsteady breath. “God. Let go. Oh, let go,” he squirmed against my hold. I untangled my hand from his hair and he let go of my wrist.

He took a few deep breaths before he shucked off his jacket and shirt. He kneeled in front of me, between my open legs, and slid his hands along my thighs. His blue-green eyes met mine. His thumbs rubbed against the inside seams of my trousers until he was close enough to press his palm against my zip. His fingers curled up between my legs. I opened my legs as far as the chair would allow to give him better access while simultaneously giving him permission to do as he pleased.

He stroked me only a couple of times before practically ripping open my trousers. Impatiently, he pulled the waistband to both my trousers and pants down to my knees. His hands flew to his own trousers. I took the opportunity to lean forward and surprise him with a kiss. He paused and turned his attention towards me. His eyes didn’t close when I kissed him more insistently nor did it seem as though this was an activity he experienced very often. His didn’t seem to know how to hold himself, his body was tense and his lips were clumsy. He flinched at feeling the tip of my tongue lick at his lips. He broke off the kiss soon after that to remove his cock from his fitted trousers and to return his attention to my groin.

While his mouth certainly wasn’t accustomed to kissing, Sherlock Holmes knew how to use his mouth in other ways. He’d no difficulty taking me in wholeheartedly. I had my hands on each arm rest, gripping the fabric while he swallowed around me. Once again, I felt a tight grasp around my wrist as he tugged both of my hands back to his head. I tried keeping my hold on him gentle but his warm, wet mouth made it damn near impossible not to tangle my fingers back into his soft locks. When I pulled on his hair, he pulled off with a sharp gasp.

“Bit not good?” I asked between steadying breaths.

“No, good. Very good,” he swallowed and glanced up. He looked more dishevelled than I’d ever witnessed and it was highly arousing. He wasted no time in taking my cock back into that beautiful mouth of his.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” I quickly discovered he slowed down when I gently ran my fingers through his hair but would hasten his efforts when I tightened my grip. His hands shook slightly but kept a sure hold on my hips, keeping me from thrusting up into his mouth. I’m embarrassed to say, it didn’t last long. Upon noticing Sherlock’s right hand had dropped to jerk himself off, I barely had a chance to warn him of my impending orgasm.

He refused to be pulled off and he shoved his other hand between himself and the chair. I pulled him down on me and thrust up, embracing the white-hot pleasure.

Just as quickly, it was over and we were listless and satiated. With some manoeuvring, he managed to get up to wash his hands off in the kitchen sink. I kept quiet; he’d surely done worse things in the kitchen sink. Both hands clean, he pulled his trousers back up and retrieved his shirt. He put it back on, only buttoned it about halfway, and left it untucked. I followed suit and coerced my limbs into pulling my own trousers back up.

Sherlock’s weight dropped heavily onto my lap without warning. He curled himself up against me with his head on my shoulder and _nuzzled_ his nose just under my jaw. I brought my hand up to his cheek and tried to press a kiss to his lips, only to be rejected with a turn of his head.

“You don’t want—“ he mumbled against my neck.

“I don’t care,” I assured him. He gave in reluctantly. He flinched again when I licked at his lips.

“Really, John.”

“Really, Sherlock. I don’t care.” He was absolute rubbish at snogging. Twice I broke it off with a laugh. The second time, he glared at me, having realized _what_ I was laughing about.

“Stop that,” he insisted. His face took on a slight pouting look.

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe you’re this God-awful at kissing.”

He looked offended for a moment then huffed and went back to nuzzling into my collar. “My head is sore,” he whined as he rubbed the back of his head tentatively. I replaced his hand to massage the top and back of his head gently.

“Better?”

“Mh,” he nodded as much as he could in the crook of my neck. “Don’t stop,” he murmured with a soft, content sigh.

 

In private, I took advantage of my newfound knowledge whenever Sherlock got to be entirely too much. When no one else was around or we were at the flat, I could run a hand through his hair and he would almost immediately fall silent. When in a mood, it was amazing what some simple attention would do for his attitude.

It was something we did in private because the fine line between relaxing him and arousing him was just that: a very fine line. There were certain parts of him that were sensitive, such as his head and neck. He could be easily overstimulated and overwhelmed. Other people don’t exactly show him physical affection so it doesn’t cause problems, but it would if I started to.

Still, I had my tricks to settle the detective in public. The small of his back was a safe place to touch. It was enough to ground him but not so much to arouse him through the several layers of his clothing. It was a subtle enough move, easy to pass off as friendly contact. It would be another couple of months before we actually made our relationship known to those around us, though no one was surprised.


End file.
